


i see this life like a swinging vine

by insignificantindifference



Series: Counting Stars Verse [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insignificantindifference/pseuds/insignificantindifference
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is the first year that I have understood why you drink." </p><p>Hayffie. Delves into the category of being a character study, dances on the edge of analyzing the relationship between the Escort and the Mentor. Pre-74th Games, for now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hope is a four letter word

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks for clicking on this story. I've had this in the works since the first movie came out, and have only now decided I like it well enough to publish; I hope you feel the same way. And, if you don't, I would appreciate any notes/tips/pointers you have to offer on anything you didn't like -- the characterization of this is more difficult than some of the things I've written, simply because the characters are so complex, and we don't see much of their interaction. 
> 
> Shout-out to Alexa the Great, who beta read this ages ago. Title (story and chapter) comes from my new obsession, "Counting Stars", by OneRepublic.

She was tired of the way he looked at her. She was tired of that mixture of sadness and scorn and blame that filled his features for that brief second when he first laid eyes on her each year, that second before he seemed to realize what he was doing, that second before he skillfully wiped his face blank of any indication that he had any emotions at all.

She was smarter than he thought, you know. She knew that he felt the Games were cruel indications of the Capitol’s power. She knew that he hated them, hated the Capitol, and hated her because she stood for it all. Sometimes, when he felt she wasn’t watching, he had this glazed look in his eyes-- because of alcohol or his own musings, she didn’t know-- personally, she didn’t care. But it was such an intense look; he’d stare at her wig until she felt it would catch fire. Like he wished it would, or she would, or they all would until they disappeared in a storm of ashes because it would be easier for them to spiral to the floor in a cloud of dust, reflected in sunlight, than for him to stand there looking at her.

She wasn’t angry. She couldn’t be, because in those rare moments when her eyes were open long enough for her to see her Tributes being hacked to death in the Cornucopia she had this fleeting feeling of ‘ _I caused this. I pulled her name out of the glass. I am a murderer’_. And in that moment she hated herself; she despised every fluorescent fiber of her being and she understood why Haymitch drowned in alcohol because not feeling anything was easier than this. Of course later, when the Games were over, she shook off these feelings and repeated that the Capitol knew what it was doing and that it was not cruel, and that this was all completely necessary. She repeated the mantra in her head until she almost had herself convinced.

“It’s a great honor, you know,” she remembered telling Haymitch once. “Imagine! Representing your entire District, fighting gallantly for honor, and victory! It’s like a movie!”

She faltered when he looked up from his vodka long enough to stare at her. And it wasn’t anger that flickered in his eyes. It was a hopeless, harsh amusement. “You really don’t get it, do you, sweetheart?” His words were rolled in sarcasm and sprinkled with condescension.

“I don’t understand what you mean, Haymitch,” she said haughtily, turning her nose up at him and reaching for her wine. “But I don’t think _you_ understand. You should be grateful that the Capitol offers your Districts a chance at wealth.”

He took another drink of vodka, emptying the glass, and slamming it back down on the table. “That’s really all you see this as, isn’t it?” He scoffed. “Must be so great to be you,” he said finally, frowning at her. He gave her one last look before turning around and searching for more alcohol, reasoning that he wasn’t slurring yet so obviously he wasn’t drunk enough. He poured himself another shot and raised an eyebrow at her, raising the glass in a mock toast before leaving the room.

She thought about what he said, that day long ago. ‘Must be so great to be you’. He said it simply, sarcasm gone from his voice for that one, rare moment, replaced instead by exhaustion. Why did he envy _her_? Because he thought her life was so easy? Because he thought that being a Capitol citizen opened doors for her? Because he felt that, as escort, she was safe?

“You’re so wrong, Haymitch,” she whispered to herself, nursing a glass of wine as she sat on the roof of the Tribute’s building. They were more alike than he realized. He was isolated and alone because he wanted to be, but she, she was forced into the role. District 12 Escort, Effie Trinket. What a joke. The Capitol put up with her, her friends scoffed at her, her parents pretended she didn’t exist. The other Escorts played nice of course, it was good manners after all, but she knew what they all thought of her because she thought it too.

The wind picked up and in a moment of spontaneity she took off her wig, throwing it over the side of the building, understanding why Haymitch looked at it with scorn. She gasped when it came flying back next to her.

“Force field, sweetheart. I would know.”

She jumped at the voice, willing her heart to stop pounding as she turned around. “Haymitch,” she breathed, closing her eyes and shaking her head to clear it. “You are the last person I want to see right now,” she admitted, not maliciously.

He shrugged and sat down next to her, scoffing at the pink wig that sat between them. “Never took you for a blonde,” he said gruffly, admiring her real hair.

She almost smiled. “What do you want, Haymitch?” She sounded tired.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

She sighed. Neither could she. She hadn’t been able to sleep for a while now.

“You said this is a force field?” she asked, tossing a pebble at the air by her feet. It bounced back and hit her in the shin. She hoped it would bruise.

He grunted in response.

“I remember your Hunger Games, you know. I was rooting for you.”

He scoffed. “And why the hell would you do that, Princess?”

She shrugged. “You spared the life of the boy from Five on the first day.”

She looked at him and squinted, waiting for a response. He stared back at her stonily and said nothing.

“You did more than spare it, actually. I suppose you saved it.”

“Whatever do you mean, sweetheart?” he asked, familiar sarcasm back in his tone.

She knew he knew. “No one else realized. But I did. He was following you and you lead him away from the Careers, even though the Careers would have protected you.” It was true. Everyone else thought that the fear of the Careers kept Haymitch from forming an alliance, but Effie remembered seeing a glimpse of the little boy and seeing Haymitch’s recognition of it. And that day Haymitch Abernathy became remarkable in her eyes.

“Only until they could kill me.” His voice snapped her out of her reverie. Haymitch Abernathy never really stopped being remarkable, she supposed. So where along the line did she?

She shrugged again and threw another pebble off the side of the building. She managed to catch it as it came back.

“Stop.”

She looked up at him, surprised, uncertain that she had actually heard him. “Excuse me?”

He reached over and gripped her wrist, reaching for the other two pebbles in her hand, tugging them gently from her grip. “Stop,” he repeated firmly, tossing the pebbles behind him.

Effie nodded, eyes not leaving his face. “Okay,” she whispered, swallowing audibly. Her mouth was very dry. He stared back, hand still holding her by the wrist.

“Haymitch,” she whispered again, closing her eyes. “When…when does it stop?” He was easier to talk to when she wasn’t looking at him. When she didn’t have to see the hate and anger in his eyes – directed towards her, towards the Capitol, towards the world – it didn’t suit him.

He sighed, and lowered her arm, but did not let go of her wrist. “What?” he asked, and the weight of the world was reflected in the word.

The killings? The murders? The Games? The dirty looks he gave her? The drinking? The arguing between them? The nightmares? The screams?

She was no stranger to nightmares. And most nights his were loud enough to wake her from her slumber across the hall. He fought invisible monsters and ghosts and she heard his knife slashing through the air as she stood by his door and debated whether or not she should interfere, or whether she should ignore them like he did.

Hers were recent. There was something about meeting Haymitch that made seeing these Tributes die harder than seeing the ones before. She supposed it was something about how the boy’s hair was so much like Haymitch’s, and the girl’s eyes so much like his as well, that made her see him in their place. And then she thought about how despicable Haymitch was, and how he had no manners, and how he drank too much and smelled like booze and how she shivered whenever he called her “sweetheart” and how much she loved it when he bantered with her. And she realized she would miss him. If something happened to Haymitch, the Games would be much lonelier for her than they already were.

These thoughts wouldn’t leave her, and suddenly every year every Tributes haunted her dreams and eventually they turned into nightmares and eventually the Tributes turned into Haymitch. And sometimes he died and sometimes he killed her, standing over her with his knife, her wig in hand and a frown on her face. “Let’s not pretend this was going to last, sweetheart,” he would say, and the way Dream Haymitch said the nickname it lost all its appeal.

She shivered at the memory and realized that Haymitch was waiting for an answer. “What?” he repeated, voice stronger now.

She sighed again. “Everything,” she answered, opening her eyes and raising her shoulder in a shrug. “Everything.” There was a quiet desperation in her voice, and Haymitch realized that she had given up.

He smiled sadly and reached for the pebbles he took from her, throwing one down at the force field. “You can’t even jump to your death here, Effie,” he said by way of answer, and she realized it was the first time he ever used her given name. The pebble flew back and clattered near her hand.

She knew what he meant. She understood that he was saying that here, the Capitol controlled everything, and that by this reasoning her nightmares and the Tribute’s screams were all controlled by it, too.

“Have you ever wanted to? Jump to your death?”  She asked. She sat cross-legged on the ledge of the roof, back straight, poise perfect.

He smirked halfheartedly. “Trying to get rid of me, sweetheart?”

He was surprised by the pain that flashed through her eyes – he noted that it was gone as soon as it arrived. “Please, Haymitch, who else would annoy me every year?” she scoffed, clearing her throat when she realized that her voice sounded raw.

“And what about you?” he asked suddenly, unable to meet her eyes. “Have you?”

“Shall I give you as vague an answer as you gave me?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “No one mentions the Escorts in between Games, you know,” she said conversationally, after her previous words had sunk in. “Oh sure, a particularly remarkable or particularly horrid performance is noted, but the Capitol forgets quickly and moves on and until the next Games we are all forgotten. My fifteen minutes of fame are over quicker than that of most Escorts,” she admitted, smiling wryly. “So you can imagine that these weeks while the Games are on are really the only weeks that matter in my year, and that I spend all my time preparing for the next ones.”

It wasn’t news to him, though her frankness shocked him. But no, the words themselves did not. He understood how the Capitol worked, and knew that this was how, when it all came down to it, she worked. She had to, living in the environment she did. It was all she knew and it was all anyone around her cared about so she did, too. “So what’s different now?”

She smiled softly. “I have never wanted them to be over before. Sure, every year when the Tributes for our District die I am temporarily discouraged, but there are always interviews to attend and speeches to give and the rest of the Games to watch. But this year? I-I…” she trailed off. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

“…You want to forget it ever happened?” he supplied quietly.

“This is the first year that I have understood why you drink,” she said, and the answer was confirmation enough.

“And this is the longest I’ve gone without a drink in a while,” he answered, standing up. She knew it was his farewell.

But he surprised her. He reached out his hand and she smiled up at him uncertainly, taking it. It looked strange, her manicured fingers against his calloused hand. He pulled her up effortlessly and she reached down for her wig, wanting to put it back on before she went inside.

“Don’t,” he said. And he smiled. “Blonde suits you.”

Yes, Haymitch Abernathy was a remarkable man.


	2. lately i've been losing sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She couldn’t start something with Haymitch because she was Escort Effie, prim and proper and well-mannered. And Haymitch Abernathy was anything but. 
> 
> Chapter 2/2. Hayffie. Keep an eye out for maybe more stories in this "Counting Stars" verse. I don't think I'm done with them yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone who has read/commented on/bookmarked/kudos'ed this story! I appreciate your support and I hope I've done the characters here justice. I hope to some day venture further into this "Counting Stars" verse as I've named it, so keep an eye out for that! 
> 
> As always, a special thanks to the greatest, Alexandra, for not only betaing this and offering her insight, but also for traversing the unfamiliar Hayffie territory with me!

She did not expect that one non-confrontational conversation between the two of them would lead to later pleasantries. She knew that, deep down, she was still Effie and he was still Haymitch and the two were polar opposites who were lucky to have a conversation without fighting.

But she also did not expect that her feelings would change or that she would grow to care for the well-being of Haymitch Abernathy, but she did. She found herself stirring when he had his nightmares, and walking to the edge of his door, wondering if she should walk in and wake him, or continue pretending that she heard nothing. She heard him mumbling to himself, almost growling at some invisible enemy and she decided to throw caution to the wind – she remembered his insinuation that the Capitol controlled everything, including their nightmares, and she’d be damned if she wasn’t considered Capitol enough to have some influence on stopping them.

“Haymitch?” she called softly, not wanting to scare him. “Oh for the love of…” she sighed and reached for the knob, hoping it was left unlocked. To her surprise, it was.

“Haymitch?” she repeated, and she saw the man awake with a start, eyes feral, wielding his knife. She raised her hands in surrender and slowly approached him, “It’s me, Haymitch. It’s Effie. Please, put down the knife.” She saw his chest heave, his breathing labored. His eyes were glazed over, and she knew he still saw whatever monstrous things had haunted his nightmares. “Haymitch,” she repeated softly, moving closer. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus his vision, and he seemed to recognize her because the knife fell from his grip.

“Effie?” He sounded disoriented and looked as if he were going to fall over.

She hurried to his side and grabbed him by his forearms, steadying him. “I’m right here, Haymitch,” she said quietly, turning him gently until she could lead him to the edge of his bed. “It’s alright. You were having a nightmare,” she explained, hating how shrill her Capitol-accented voice sounded.

He nodded and closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over his cheek. “I need a drink,” he mumbled, and he reached over to the flask on his nightstand, cursing when it was empty.

“Please, Haymitch. Don’t.”

He looked up at her. “Excuse me?” She could feel the faint traces of anger in his voice.

“Don’t, Haymitch. Don’t drink. Not tonight,” her eyes were closed again, throat dry again. “Please.”

He considered shaking her off, considered yelling at her that she didn’t know anything and she should keep her nose out of his business. But he remembered their rooftop conversation and for some reason found himself nodding.

“Okay,” he rasped. “I won’t.”

She nodded and slid to the floor, leaning her head back against the side of the bed, eyes closed once again. “Thank you.”

He lay back in the bed, sighing and turning, facing the ceiling. “Thank you. For waking me.”

She made a grunt of acknowledgement and it was so unladylike and so un-Effie that he snorted, and couldn’t keep the smirk from finding its way to his lips.

She cracked her eyes open and smiled at him, reaching her hand up and lacing her fingers through his in another gesture of spontaneity. He squeezed her hand gently.

“I should go back to bed,” she whispered finally, reluctantly pulling her hand back.

He tightened his grip on her. “You don’t have to.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t have to go back to bed,” he repeated roughly. “Stay.”

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t start something with Haymitch because she was Escort Effie, prim and proper and well-mannered. And Haymitch Abernathy was anything but. Haymitch was drunk and sloppy and he’d stopped giving a damn about things long ago so why would he give a damn about her? She wasn’t lured by the false pretense that sleeping with him in this moment would mean anything to him, and the only thing holding her back was the fear that for some reason it would, in the end, mean something to her.

She stood and leaned over, kissing his cheek. “I have to go, Haymitch. Good night.”

Effie turned away and left the room, closing the door behind her before she let her tears fall. She sank down to the floor again, knees drawn to her chest and head against her arms. On the other side of the door Haymitch sighed, hearing her crying and knowing that he was, once again, the last person she wanted to see at the moment.

That was the first night that Effie Trinket drank herself to sleep. 


End file.
